


all that we are

by peter_parkerson



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aggressive Denial of Canon, Angst, Anxiety, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hugs, James "Rhodey" Rhodes & Tony Stark Friendship, Natasha Romanov & Tony Stark Friendship, Natasha Romanov Lives, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Soul Bond, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Tony Stark Lives, because shes important to me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-02-28 19:05:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18762562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peter_parkerson/pseuds/peter_parkerson
Summary: When Tony snaps, Peter is touching him.Distributed between two people, one with enhanced DNA, the power of the Infinity Stones does not kill either of them. What it does do, however, is forge a soul bond between Tony and Peter that they can't seem to get rid of.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so i texted my best friend about this idea at like 1 am. when i woke up, i still thought it was good and that's how i knew i had to write it
> 
> no but for real though, endgame hurt my soul and i've decided that canon is fake anyway, so here we are. enjoy!! 
> 
> also. don't ask me how nat is alive. don't. i don't know. she just is because i love her ok let me live
> 
> also posted on [tumblr](https://peter-parkerson.tumblr.com/post/184749677560/all-that-we-are-chapter-1)

Reaching out for Tony is second nature to Peter.

 

They’ve come a long way since The Homecoming Incident, as they’ve not-so-fondly dubbed it. It was a rocky start, but all things considered, Peter likes to think that finding their footing wasn’t nearly as painful as it could’ve been. Trust doesn’t come easily, after all, especially for someone who has suffered as much as Tony Stark has, but they got there eventually.

 

(Peter wonders if the five years dangling between them will be the thing that sends them backsliding.

 

But no. The first thing Tony did when they reunited - _five years, five years, five years_ \- was hug him tight, and the look in his eyes said it all.)

 

Reaching out for Tony is easy. Reaching out is instinctive. Impulsive. Automatic. Reaching out is something he doesn’t have to think twice about, hasn’t had to think twice about for months now, because he knows that Tony will always reach for him in return.

 

It happens really fast, but it feels like forever to Peter. Like everything has been running on fast forward since the moment he woke up on Titan, but as soon as the Infinity Stones are in Tony’s hands, Peter’s brain starts processing in slow-motion.

 

His world narrows to a point, and in this moment he cares about nothing but Tony.

 

He doesn’t know why he does it. It’s not like he actually expects to help anything, to change anything, to _solve_ anything. It’s reflex, he supposes, to search for his mentor when he’s clearly out of his depth. When he’s beyond the point of scared that he feels he can handle on his own. And, watching Tony stare down Thanos with the six most dangerous objects in the universe on his gauntlet, he thinks this is the most terrified he’s ever been.

 

They say hindsight is 20/20 and tunnel vision is blinding, but in this case, nothing and no one could ever make him regret what he does.

 

If he had to go back and live through the final moments of the battle against Thanos and his army over, he’d do the exact same thing. Again and again and again.

 

Because reaching out for Tony Stark in the seconds before he snaps his fingers and saves the universe yet again just so happens to be the thing that saves Tony Stark’s life.

 

His fingers graze Tony’s arm and the energy from the Stones instantly redistributes itself. Flows into Peter like a faucet, except there’s no way to turn it off. There’s no way to make the pure power stop flooding his veins, no way to make his skin stop burning _,_ no way to make it stop feeling like he’s crackling with electricity all the way down to his bones.

 

It _hurts._ It hurts worse than anything Peter has ever felt, the pain so intense that it’s almost all he can even register. Nothing else is real. Nothing else is comprehensible through the sheer _agony_ of possessing a level of power than no one being was ever meant to have.

 

Even through the pain, he sees the exact second in which Tony realizes. But by then, it’s too late.

 

Tony snaps his fingers with fear in his eyes and the potential to destroy the universe pumping through his blood.

 

Thanos’s army slowly begins to disappear, and Peter thinks this will be a pretty respectable way to die.

 

Then Thanos himself fades into nothing and the universe goes dark.

 

* * *

 

Sliding back into consciousness is quite possibly the least graceful thing Tony has ever done.

 

As soon as he even starts to blink his eyes open, he can feel... _something_ fluttering in his chest, a sensation that’s horrifyingly akin to the palladium poisoning of years past.

 

Alarm bells. Immediate, deafening alarm bells go off in his head, and before he can even think, he jerks upright. His hands fly to his chest, an inexplicable pain shooting up his right arm, and he presses, _hard,_ into the spot where his arc reactor would be. He’s shaking, all the way down to the tips of his fingers, and then he’s scrambling, his instincts screaming at him to _escape escape escape,_ even though he has no idea what he’s trying to escape from.

 

He very nearly face-plants on the tile floor. Can’t quite figure out why he hasn’t until a voice he’d recognize anywhere says, “Jesus, Tones, _again?_ ”

 

He doesn’t know what that means. He doesn’t know what’s happening.

 

But Rhodey is here. Rhodey is here, and he sounds exasperated but not panicked so Tony must be safe.

 

He’s safe.

 

He’s on the edge of a panic attack and apparently he yanked a needle out of his arm ( _again_ ), but he’s safe.   

 

“Tony, come on, breathe.” One of Rhodey’s hands has settled on the small of Tony’s back and the other is wrapped around his forearm both to hold him up and to stem the trickle of blood from his ripped-out IV. “You’re okay. It’s over, Tones. Everything’s alright.”

 

He knows this. In theory, at least, he does.

 

It’s not computing. Something is off - his stomach is twisted in knots and something in his head is yelling for him to _listen,_ to _pay attention_ , but he can’t hear a word of whatever that part of him is trying to say.

 

He’s still trembling under Rhodey’s hands, leaning into him as best he can from his awkward position between the bed and the floor. Rhodey moves his hand from Tony’s back to his waist and starts to gently shift him back onto the bed properly. Tony doesn’t resist, wouldn’t have the strength even if he wanted to. He lets Rhodey coax him down until his head hits the pillow and the fight almost instantly drains out of him.

 

And then, “Mr. Stark?”

 

_Peter._

 

Tony shoots up again, vaguely registers something clattering to the floor and Rhodey swearing. Ignores both of these things in favor of swinging his legs off the bed and pushing up onto his feet.

 

(He’s pretty sure he’s going to give Rhodey a heart attack one of these days.)

 

He sways. Presses his palm against his still-bleeding forearm in place of Rhodey’s and just sways for what feels like hours before he feels just steady enough to stumble toward Peter’s voice.

 

His vision is too blurry to really see where he’s going, but all he can think is _Peter_ and he figures he’ll find him eventually.

 

It’s all coming back to him. The time travel, the fight, the reunions. Using the Infinity Stones. Erasing Thanos and his army.

 

Peter.

 

Peter was there. He was there and he was alive and he was just as upbeat and talkative and _bright_ as usual and he was _alive._

 

They’re both alive. They’re both alive and it’s because of some ridiculous, half-cocked _time heist_ , sheer dumb luck, and, if Tony has this part right, the fact that Peter _happened_ to be touching him when he snapped.

 

It’s...on brand, if nothing else.

 

Frankly, Tony doesn’t have the energy to care how it all played out anyway. He’s got priorities - or, well, one priority, and right now it’s to hug a certain spider-kid.

 

It takes him a minute and his legs wobble all the while, but he finds his way to Peter’s hospital bed. The kid is sitting up, looking just the slightest bit more steady than Tony feels, and as soon as Tony gets close, he flings his arm out and opens and closes his hand in that grabby gesture that little kids make when they want their parent to come hold them. It’s quite possibly the youngest Tony has ever seen the kid look.

 

And _God,_ Tony missed him. Five years, and all he could do was stare at framed pictures of the two of them and dream of alien planets and dust and _Mr. Stark, I don’t feel so good._

 

But he got him back. The kid’s in a hospital bed with an IV in his arm that thankfully hasn’t been ripped out (yet) and that same glazed look in his eyes that he got when Bruce put him on specialized pain medication after he was shot on patrol, but he’s back.

 

It feels like a dream. Tony has had this dream before, too, the one where they figure out how to save everyone and Peter comes back and everything’s great until either the dream deteriorates into yet another nightmare or Tony wakes up and remembers. He doesn’t think he can handle either of those options right now.

 

Peter’s hand finds Tony’s shirt. His fingers twist into the fabric so tightly that his knuckles go white, and Tony thinks he might cry.

 

He doesn’t. Instead, he brings his free hand up to cover Peter’s and squeezes gently. Peter smiles loopily up at him and the fluttery feeling in Tony’s chest fades.

 

“Peter,” Tony says hoarsely. It’s all he can get out around the lump in his throat.

 

The kid _feels_ real. Solid. Not like he’s going to fade away if Tony holds him too tight.

 

“Hi, Mr. Stark,” Peter says. His eyes go soft. “S’been a while, huh?”

 

The noise Tony makes is somewhere between a laugh and a dry sob. Still staring at Peter, he calls, “Rhodey?”

 

“Yeah, Tones?”

 

“You see him too, right?”

 

He hates to ask. He really does hate to ask, but the level of trust he has in his own mind at this point is...low, to say the least.

 

There’s a pause. Tony fixes his gaze on that one curl of Peter’s that always (still) hangs in his face and prays to a god he doesn’t believe in that this isn’t just another cruel joke.

 

“Yeah, Tones,” Rhodey says again, and it’s not a question this time. It’s a confirmation.

 

Real.

 

_Real._

 

Peter tugs, lightly, on Tony’s shirt. “Mr. Stark. Come sit with me.”

 

The bed is very much not big enough for two people. Peter scoots over anyway, looks expectantly up at Tony.

 

This kid is going to be the death of him.

 

Tony sits carefully on the edge of the bed and it’s only then that he realizes that if he’d stayed standing much longer, he most definitely would have passed out. Huh. On the list of the most dangerous things Tony’s ever done, ripping out his IV is, admittedly, pretty low, but it’s still on the list. He thinks it’s worth it to see Peter’s smile.

 

“Are you okay?” Peter, by now, has let go of Tony’s shirt and instead threaded his fingers through Tony’s. Apparently, the kid has way fewer inhibitions when he’s high.

 

Fuck’s sake, though. Is _Tony_ okay, Peter asks, when _he’s_ the one who vanished from existence and only just came back.

 

“Are _you?_ ” Tony shoots back, swinging his legs up onto the bed and scooting back to lean against the headboard. His head swims at the sharp movement and his legs end up half on top of Peter’s, but he ignores all of this.

 

Peter nods firmly, then promptly pitches over and buries his face in the juncture between Tony’s shoulder and his neck. Tony has to bite down on his bottom lip to keep from hissing in pain when Peter jostles him - Tony doesn’t know exactly how the stones affected him (or Peter. He’s a lot more concerned about Peter), but it _hurts._ Peter’s clearly too out of it to feel much of anything, but Tony’s whole body doesn’t seem ready to stop aching any time soon.

 

He kind of doesn’t care. Because he hasn’t gotten his hug yet - a proper hug that’s not in the middle of the fight for the universe - and he still really needs it.

 

There’s a lot of shifting he has to do, including letting go of Peter’s hand (he thinks he hears Peter whine into his sleeve - he wouldn’t be surprised if he actually was imagining it this time, though), but he manages to twist a little and wrap his arms around the kid’s waist. He’s careful to avoid the arm with the IV in it. Peter follows suit easily, free hand settling between Tony’s shoulder blades.

 

Tony breathes in.

 

(Peter smells like sweat and smoke and something so authentically _Peter_.

 

He’s not going to cry. He’s _not._ )

 

He breathes out.

 

Peter gives a quiet hum. “I like this. Can we keep the hugging?”

 

Tony laughs, brings a hand up to rustle Peter’s hair for the sole sake of making him squirm. “Sure, Pete. Whatever you want.”

 

Tony doesn’t normally like hugging. He doesn’t normally like being touched all that much in general, unless it’s Pepper, but maybe Peter’s tactileness is rubbing off on him.

 

He feels like the tables have turned and he’s the kid who needs to be held now. It’s not an entirely foreign feeling, but it is...a bit uncanny.

 

He doesn’t get the chance to dissect it, because Rhodey, who apparently made it across the room without Tony noticing, rests a hand on Tony’s shoulder and says, “As much as I hate to break up the reunion, guys, I’m gonna need Tony to come back to his bed so I can put his IV back in.” 

 

Peter definitely does whine this time as Tony pulls back and turns to glance at Rhodey. “Do you even know how to do that?” 

 

He knows the answer. Rhodey has done this for him and other Avengers more than once before, and the military man always has a really steady hand. He’s only asking to be annoying.

 

Rhodey shoots him a _look_.

 

“Okay, okay, honeybear,” Tony relents, still half-chuckling. “No need to give me that look.”

 

Except maybe there is, because Tony _really_ doesn’t want to move. He likes it here, with Peter, on this tiny hospital bed (vaguely, he wonders what hospital they’re in. It’s definitely not one of his own medbays), and besides, he’s not entirely sure he could make it back to his own bed.

 

“Does the bed roll?”

 

Rhodey furrows his brow. “What?”

 

“The bed,” Tony repeats. “And all the machines. Can they move?”

 

“Um…” He gives Tony’s shoulder one last gentle squeeze, then turns and crosses the room. The bed doesn’t budge at first when Rhodey pushes at it, but a little investigating turns up a stopper that flips to let the the wheels roll. The IV machine moves without protest. “That, they can.”

 

In short order, the other bed is pushed up against Peter’s and Rhodey has Tony’s arm cleaned up and a new line drawn for the IV. He looks away as Rhodey finds a vein in his right arm and expertly slides the needle through his skin, busies himself with twisting a lock of Peter’s hair around his finger, right behind his ear, to make him giggle.

 

After everything’s set, there’s a long moment where Rhodey just stands at the foot of the bed and stares at them. He’s been a fair bit less emotional than Tony up to this point, but now he’s looking back and forth between the two of them with more relief in his eyes than Tony has seen since Afghanistan.

 

“I’m really glad you two are okay.” He looks specifically to Peter, then, and while Tony knew that Peter’s death affected Rhodey and Pepper too, it’s not until he watches Rhodey start to extend a hand toward Peter, hesitate, then try to hide his smile in Peter’s shoulder when the kid reaches up to drag him into a one-armed hug that Tony realizes just how much it did. “We, uh - we all really missed you, Pete.”

 

“It was all…” Peter pulls away, glances at Tony before looking back to Rhodey. He’s uncomfortable, Tony can tell, probably with all the attention right after the shock of coming back to life five years in the future. Tony can’t blame him, he’s uncomfortable just thinking about it. Peter’s voice is quiet, almost apologetic when he says, “Everything happened in the blink of an eye for me. I wasn’t - I didn’t have time to miss anyone. But if I had, I would have missed you all too.”

 

In a way, Tony thinks it might be worse. Having no concept of the passage of time for five years, then waking up to a world that moved on without you. Not because it wanted to, no, but because it had to.

 

This is all so fucked up.

 

And where is everyone, anyway? Pepper and Morgan, the other Avengers, why are they not all crowded at Tony and Peter’s bedsides like the family of a coma patient in those corny drama movies?

 

Rhodey is just turning to go, surely to give them some space to talk, when Tony asks, “Hey, where are Pepper and Morgan? And everyone else, they’re all okay, right?”

 

“Oh, yeah,” Rhodey assures, glancing back over his shoulder at him. “Everyone’s fine, just a little banged up. Pepper had some legal stuff to take care of, with Avengers Tower and the press and all. Morgan’s with her.”

 

“Wait, Pep’s - how long has it been?”

 

Rhodey’s lips press into a tight line. “Nine days. It - it was a little touch and go for a while, but things levelled out around day four. Pepper all but refused to leave your side until a couple days ago.”  


Well. That explains the bags under Rhodey’s eyes.

 

“I’m gonna go tell everyone you’re awake,” he continues, slipping his hands into his jean pockets and rocking back and forth on his heels. It’s a habit Tony recognizes as one that only appears when Rhodey’s stressed. “I’ll tell them to leave you alone for now, but I don’t know how long Bruce and Nat will be willing to wait. If you need anything, just...have FRIDAY call me.”

 

“Is May okay?”

 

“What?”

 

“My aunt,” Peter says loudly, too loudly, as if he’s trying to drown out his own thoughts. His teeth worry at his bottom lip, and it’s the most lucid he’s sounded since waking. “Is she - did she...turn to dust or…”

 

“Yes. She did, Pete.” It had been a relief, finding out that May had vanished along with Peter. He’s hated himself for it, felt horribly selfish for a long time about being so relieved that he wouldn’t have to find a way to look May Parker in the eyes and tell her that the nephew she’d taken in as her own son was gone. Eventually, he’d realized that, between the two of them, May had gotten the better end of the deal.

 

To Rhodey, he asks, “Did you guys get in contact with her yet?”

 

 _Please say yes. Please let this kid have_ one _good thing._

 

For once in his life, he gets what he asked for. Rhodey nods, says, “She’s been staying here - this is a SHIELD facility, by the way - so she should be around somewhere. If you want me to bring her in now, I can, but the kid looks like he’s about to pass out.”

 

Tony _feels_ like he’s about to pass out.

 

“S’okay,” Peter murmurs, his fingers finding their way to the pulse point in Tony’s wrist. “I think I, uh...need a nap first.”

 

Again, Rhodey nods. Touches Tony’s shoulder one last time, then goes.

 

And then it’s just Peter and Tony.

 

Tony barely even has a second to fret over what the hell he’s supposed to say before Peter gives him a confused, vaguely disconcerted look and asks quietly, “Who’s Morgan?”

 

Oh.

 

_Oh._

 

Five years. Five years in which Tony got married (a bittersweet affair) and had a daughter. Five years that Peter now has to catch up on.

 

Somehow, he keeps forgetting.

 

Tony can’t look Peter in the eyes when he tells him, “Morgan is my daughter. She’s - she’s four.”

 

For a long moment, Peter doesn’t react. Just sits there and, slowly but surely, processes.

 

Tony doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but Peter’s face lighting up isn’t it.

 

And yet, the kid’s smiling. Bright and glinting and _happy._ “That’s amazing! I always knew you’d make a great dad, Mr. Stark.”

 

He’s not mad. Peter’s not mad at him for moving on.

 

Not only that, Peter’s _happy for him._

 

He doesn’t deserve this kid. Nobody deserves this kid.

 

“I - I’ll introduce you to her. Whenever she gets back with Pep, I can - you can meet her.”

 

As quick as it came, Peter’s smile fades (Tony’s going to get whiplash, Jesus Christ). He’s just about to backpedal, even though he has no clue what he said wrong, but Peter beats him to it. “Does she know? About...about what happened and - and about me?”

 

_Mr. Stark, I don’t wanna go._

 

There was no way Morgan could have _not_ known. With the pictures around the house and on his phone, the nightmares, all of it, there was really no getting around telling her, even if he’d wanted to.

 

“I gave her the - the child-friendly version,” Tony says, voice cracking, “but yeah, she knows.”

 

Should he tell him?

 

He has to tell him.

 

“I kind of -” He stops, mouth twisting, fixes his gaze at the spot where Peter’s fingers touch his wrist, starts again. Steadier this time. “She thinks you’re her older brother who - passed away. It felt like the easiest way to explain to a little kid why this teenage boy she’d never met was so...important to me. So just - fair warning before you have an armful of four year old.”

 

He’s met with silence. But he still can’t look at the kid to try to gauge his expression, so he’s stuck waiting.

 

Something tells him Peter doesn’t mind, though.

 

“That’s…really sweet, Mr. Stark.” There’s way too much affection in Peter’s voice for Tony’s liking, undercut by the teasing lilt in his time. “I didn’t know you cared so much.”

 

 _Of course I care,_ Tony thinks.

 

“Go to sleep, Underoos,” Tony says, pulling his arm out of Peter’s grip to flick him lightly on the nose. “Spider-baby needs his nap.”

 

Peter swats his hand and rolls his eyes. “M’not a baby, Mr. Stark. And you look sleepier than me.”

 

He doesn’t even _try_ to make it sound like he believes the last part.

 

Tony snorts. “Whatever you say, kiddo. Tell you what, we can both take a nap and then we’ll be good and rested for when all the other Avengers come storming in here like the barbarians they are.”

 

That’s all it takes to get Peter to drop the topic of Tony’s daughter and lie down. He immediately curls into Tony’s side, careful of the IV on his outside arm, making Tony tense automatically. Peter either doesn’t notice or just refuses to budge, and Tony has to force himself to _relax, dammit._

 

His left hand finds a place in Peter’s hair. Peter’s right hand twists into Tony’s shirt.

 

It’s nice, once he gets used to it.

 

He’s only just gotten comfortable with it when Peter breaks the tranquility. Not even five minutes later, Peter pushes up on his elbow to look at Tony and says, “I’m sorry.”

 

He hates that he knows exactly what Peter means as soon as it comes out of his mouth. Hates that he knows exactly what the kid is apologizing for. He did it on Titan too, just as he was fading away, and Tony thinks he’ll never stop being angry with himself for not finding the words to comfort him.

 

There’s a level of sadness in Peter’s eyes, settled just behind the drug-induced glassiness, that makes Tony’s stomach twist. He never did get to a point where losing Peter stopped hurting, never really thought he would, and Peter’s guilt, however misplaced, is threatening to dig up even the pain that Tony did manage to bury. 

 

“It wasn’t your fault, kiddo.” There’s something else there too. Some other emotion is tugging, rather relentlessly, at his heart, but he can’t put a finger on what it is. 

 

Peter smiles sadly, knowingly. Almost ruefully. “It wasn’t yours, either.”

 

Oh. Guilt. 

 

Makes sense. If they had a contest to determine which of them had a bigger guilt complex, Tony genuinely has no idea who would win.

 

“Pete -“

 

“ _No_. No. The - the fight -“ Peter shakes his head, irritation rolling off of him in waves. Tony knows it’s more directed at his own disjointedness, though, than it is at Tony. “We lost. I know. But it was - if it wasn’t my fault, then it wasn’t yours, either.”

 

Peter flops back down on the bed, finally spent, as it seems. Tony’s starting to wonder if Peter’s haziness is contagious. The longer he’s awake and the more he tries to think, the blearier he feels.

 

He’s not going to fight Peter on this. It’s not like it would change anything or be beneficial to either of them. Peter’s always seen the best in people, never had an ounce of blame in his body for anyone but himself, and if he wants to pretend Tony isn’t at least partially responsible, then so be it.

 

“Okay, Petey,” he whispers. He wishes he could believe him, he really does, but he knows better. “Go to sleep.”

 

Peter tucks his head under Tony’s arm and is out like a light within second.

 

Tony drifts off ten minutes after Peter does, with his fingers in Peter’s hair and a feeling that’s almost, _almost_ like contentment in his chest.

 

* * *

 

It takes him a good five minutes to find a bathroom.

 

His IV was removed while he was asleep, apparently. Surprising, since Tony’s always been a light sleeper and it’s just gradually spiraled since Afghanistan, though he does vaguely recall waking up at some point and slurring about...something or other.

 

The hallways are deserted. And _dark._ Tony can’t see shit as he wanders around, making at least four wrong turns on his roundabout trek - he wonders if they make SHIELD compounds so difficult to navigate on purpose. Probably.

 

Eventually, he finds himself staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.   


Something’s wrong. He knows it. He has no clue _what_ , exactly, is wrong, but he knows something is. It feels like every cell in his body is still vibrating with the energy of the stones and the strange, fluttery feeling has resurfaced with a vengeance.

 

The longer he’s up, the worse it gets. And no matter how hard he tries to write it off, he can’t get around it. 

 

Something is so very, very wrong.

 

On his way back to the hospital room, he’s proven right.

 

He’s halfway there (he thinks) when his legs give out entirely. His vision blurs and he crumples to his knees - he thinks he blacks out, just for a moment, before coming to with his cheek pressed into the cold wood floor.

 

He feels sick. Weak. Lightheaded. A little bit nauseous.

 

_Wrong._

 

When he tries to push himself up, his hand slips and he goes plummeting to the floor again. Shit.

 

“Help,” he croaks out, because as terrible as he is about asking for help, there’s always something to be said about extenuating circumstances. He’s trembling, ever so slightly. “Someone, I need - help!”

 

He doesn’t know how long he’s there, but he must fade in and out of consciousness all the while, because at some point, he comes to with Natasha hovering over him, more concern painted across her face than Tony thinks he’s ever seen on her.

 

“Call Doctor Strange,” is the last thing he manages to say before he passes out for real.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's kinda filler-y but it be like that sometimes lol
> 
> also posted on [tumblr](https://peter-parkerson.tumblr.com/post/185693862925/all-that-we-are-chapter-2)

“So what you’re telling us,” Tony says, “is that our _souls_ are connected? That we’re basically fairytale soulmates? Except instead of a fairytale, it’s probably a horror movie. It’s always a horror movie.”

 

Peter thinks he’s dissociating.

 

Or dreaming. Or both.

 

Either way, he’s lost.  None of this feels like real life. This kind of thing doesn’t _happen_ in real life - soul bonds and resurrection and _five years gone just like that -_ and yet, here they are.

 

His fingers feel numb. So do his toes.

 

Strange nods, and he looks just as prepared for a fight as he did on Titan. Peter wonders absently if this is just what he always looks like. “Yes, exactly. And, well, if I’m correct, you are also now...empaths, of sorts, to each other.”

 

Tony is staring at Strange with this vaguely horrified look on his face. Peter thinks he should probably feel the same, but his head is still stuck...somewhere. Behind. He’s following, but at a distance.

 

He wishes everyone would slow down, just a little. Just enough to let him catch up.

 

There’s so many parts of this that aren’t clicking. He feels like he’s trying to put together a puzzle, but he’s missing all of the edge pieces.

 

Okay. One thing at a time. If he takes this one thing at a time, maybe it’ll start to make sense.

 

“What -” A wizard, a trained assassin, and his mentor all turn to look at him. Peter swallows hard, mouth dry, and says, “What the fuck is an ‘empath’.”

 

It comes out flat, not even like a question.

 

“An _empath_ , Peter,” Strange says, hands clasped in front of him, “is someone who can feel other people’s emotions. Usually, they can sense anyone’s emotions, but it appears the Infinity Stones have connected the two of you in a way that allows you to feel only each other’s emotions.”

  
  
Oh. Is that why Peter feels so disconnected from himself?

 

Hm. It would make sense. Or, well, it wouldn’t, because absolutely none of this makes sense, but. But.

 

Distantly, Peter registers a hand resting on his wrist. Distantly, he notes that this hand is connected to Tony.

 

Distantly, he is aware that he should be more aware.

 

Jesus. He’d kill for a cheeseburger right now.

 

“Okay.” Peter nods once, then just...keeps nodding. His gaze has settled on a spot on the wall, and he can’t seem to pull it away. “Okay, that’s - that’s fine. It’s fine, right? You’ll fix it, no big deal -”

 

“Peter, kid, _breathe._ ”

 

Peter sucks in a deep breath, fingernails digging into his palms. Breathes out, low and slow, through his mouth. Feels no more present than he did ten seconds ago, but at least he’s stopped fucking talking.

 

Maybe he’ll just stop talking for a while. He’s kind of ready to stop existing for a while.

 

Actually, no. Been there, done that. Would not recommend, seeing as _this_ is what he came back to.

 

This is a lot.

 

He wonders if he’s so overwhelmed because he’s feeling both his own emotions and Tony’s. Probably, he thinks.

 

Slow down. He needs everything to _slow down._

 

"Pete. Kid, you with me?"

 

Yes. No. Maybe?

 

"Not -" Peter's hands clench and unclench on repeat. A broken record. "Uh, not really? I don't - I'm not -"

 

Not. Not not not. He doesn't know what he's not. The word is starting to lose meaning.

 

There are only three things he knows for certain right now.

 

One: Tony is sitting at his side. He is here, because he's meant to be here, because he's always here. And now, Peter supposes, because he has to be here.

 

Two: Peter is not (not not not), in any sense of the word, okay.

 

Three: It has been five years, and he has no idea what to do with that.

 

Maybe the last one should be two things. Whatever.

 

Two calloused fingers hook under Peter's chin - he doesn't resist as his head is turned to face Tony, doesn't think he'd have it in him to even try. Tony's eyes skirt across his face almost automatically before locking with Peter's, and oh. Right.

 

Tony's expression is carefully calm, save for how tight of a line his mouth is pressed into. If Peter didn’t know any better, he’d take it at face-value. But he _does_ know better, so the anxiety that’s settled behind Tony’s eyes doesn’t go unnoticed.

 

Tony is way too good at hiding his emotions to actually let people, even people like Peter, see what’s behind the mask. But while he’s well-practiced at hiding his _own_ emotions, he clearly doesn’t know what to do with Peter’s.

 

 _Cloudy with a chance of shared anxiety attacks,_ Peter thinks to himself, then snorts out loud.

 

Tony’s brow furrows, the little spot between his eyes crinkling. His fingers tighten around Peter’s wrist. “Peter, buddy. We’ve got to figure this shit out, so I’m gonna need you here with me, alright?”

 

Right, yes. Things to do, problems to fix, shit to figure out. The usual.

 

How does he usually bring himself back from this? The dissociation thing isn’t exactly _common_ for him, per se, but...it’s also not _uncommon._ He has a method for this. A routine. He’s dragged himself out of the dark plenty of times before, he knows how it goes.

 

He sucks in a deep breath, closing his eyes and pulling his arm out of Tony’s grip. Presses his fingertips together in front of him and tries his best to focus on nothing but the five points where his fingertips meet.

 

Counts to seven, exhales slowly. Rinses and repeats.

 

He can feel everyone’s eyes on him, still, but they all stay silent. Peter’s grateful for it. He’s used to doing this by himself.

 

 _My name is Peter Parker. I am sixteen years old. I live in Queens, New York with my aunt May. I’m Spider-Man. I’m an Avenger - sort of, at least. Tony Stark is my mentor. Ned Leeds is my best friend. I am alive and safe._ _  
_

 

Peter opens his eyes and the world is clearer around the edges.

 

“I’m here,” he says hoarsely, running his fingers through his hair. He doesn’t give his hand back to Tony. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because he knows that Tony’s not touchy like he is, can only handle so much at a time. Because he _knows_ that, by now, it’s definitely bordering on too much.

 

He _knows_ , even though he shouldn’t. Even though it’s not his to know.

 

Fuck.

 

It hadn’t hurt. When whatever happened with Tony... _happened_. He’d felt it, yes - woken up to heavy limbs, a sweat-stained forehead, and a feeling akin to the aftermath of an asthma attack he might have gotten before the bite - but it hadn’t been _painful_. Just...feverish.

 

Peter wraps his arms around himself, pulls his knees up to his chest. “Sorry. Sorry, I, uh -”

 

“What did we say about stupid apologies, Pete?”

 

“Sorry,” Peter says automatically.

 

Tony snorts, knocks his knee against Peter’s - just half a second of contact before he pulls away again, sobering quickly. “So we can feel each other’s emotions, great. Understood. But what’s with the whole passing out thing? You got an explanation for that, too?”

 

“Yes,” Strange says. “You’re not going to like it.”

 

“Not surprised. Spill it, doc.”

 

Peter almost doesn’t want to know. After all, his life is already a shitshow. He really doesn’t need any more bad news on top of it all.

 

Supposedly, though, knowledge is power. 

 

(They also say ignorance is bliss. Up until now, Peter had thought that was bullshit.)

 

Strange sighs, and _damn,_ it must be really bad if Strange is this hesitant to tell them. Peter hasn’t known him for long, but seeing as one of the first things he did after they met was look Tony in the eyes and tell him he wouldn’t hesitate to let both of them die, he’s pretty sure Strange isn’t actually all that sympathetic.

 

He’s proven right when Strange says, bluntly and with absolutely no semblance of warmth, “Your bond has tethered you to each other in a way unlike any other, which means being apart makes you...weak. Gives you symptoms akin to a severe cold, as it seems. Your souls no longer understand that they are two separate entities, so separation, for the time being, is not an option. At least not for longer than a few minutes at a time.”

 

Tony was right. It’s no fairytale.

 

This is _all_ horror movie.

 

Peter’s head is starting to hurt. Anxiety thrums under his skin, a sharp pulse of agitation that feels...different than usual. Not drastically, but just enough to be noticeable.

 

It doesn’t take long to click.

 

“Mr. Stark,” Peter says, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and his index finger.

 

A brief silence, then, “Yeah, kid?”

 

“Stop that.”

 

“I - stop what?”

 

“ _That._ Freaking out. It’s - it’s annoying, and it’s making my head hurt.”

 

For a long moment, Tony just stares at him. Opens his mouth like he’s going to speak, then closes it again. Does this exactly four times as he visibly cycles through what Peter deduces as the five stages of grief, then buries his face in his hands and, voice muffled, says, “I’m gonna have a fucking stroke.”

 

If Tony had a stroke, would that mean Peter would too? Or does this only apply to emotions?

 

He voices this to Strange, who replies, “As of now, it only applies to emotions. It is possible that, if the bond strengthens, you will begin to share aspects like pain, as well, but I don’t believe the injuries themselves will transfer.”

 

Well. Small miracles.

 

“If one of you dies, however, I do believe it will be fatal for the other.”

 

Okay. Maybe not so miraculous.

 

“That’s fucking perfect.” Sarcasm _drips_ from Tony’s voice. Peter leans forward until his forehead hits his knees. “Of fucking _course_ it’s fatal. Typical.”

 

Peter _really_ wishes aspirin actually worked for him.

 

Even if it did work, would it fix his headache if it’s transferred from Tony?

 

Details, details.

 

“So how do we fix it?”

 

A beat, then, “I don’t know yet.”

 

“You _don’t_ _know?_ ”

 

“I don’t know _yet_ , Tony,” Strange corrects. It doesn’t make Peter feel better, and it doesn’t seem to help Tony either. “This isn’t exactly precedented. I’ll have to do some research and see what I can dig up.” 

 

Without lifting his head, Peter asks, “And what are supposed to do until then?”

 

There’s actually a hint of sympathy in the look Strange gives him this time. “Get used to seeing a lot of each other. You’re going to be stuck together for a while.”

  


* * *

  


“You know,” Natasha says, “you really got the short end of the stick, Parker.”

 

Strange left just minutes ago with a nod and a flash of orange. For a while, it’d been silent as the news rippled through the room, the three of them processing slowly, but surely.

 

Peter’s so far behind that it takes him a good ten seconds to even realize Natasha said anything. When he finally does, he glances over at her and all he can see is the remnants of platinum blonde hair resting at her shoulders and the shadows of trauma etched into the corners of her mouth.

 

( _f_ _ive year five years half the universe I’m sorry Mr. Stark I don’t wanna go_ )

 

He looks away.

 

“I, uh -” Peter scratches at the inside of his left wrist, just hard enough for it to sting. His voice doesn’t sound like his own. “I don’t think I did, Ms. Black Widow, ma’am.”

 

This knocks a surprised laugh out of Natasha, whose hand comes up to cover her mouth. Peter doesn’t really know what’s funny.

 

“He really is exactly like you said,” she tells Tony, smile bright in a way that feels so bizarre to Peter, under the circumstances. To Peter, she says, “Tony’s told me a lot about you, Spider-Man. And you can call me Natasha.”

 

A wave of something like embarrassment washes over Peter, and when he looks at Tony, his face is flushed pink.

 

“I didn’t even tell you all that much about him, Nat,” Tony mutters, but he’s smiling too.

 

Because he can, he says, “I assume s’all bad things, Natasha?”

 

“Oh, so when she tells you to call her Natasha, it’s no problem, but you _still_ refuse to call me Tony?”

 

“Please ignore Anthony, he gets like this sometimes.”

 

Natasha laughs harder, shoulders shaking, while Tony lightly swats the back of Peter’s head. “Yeah, no. I’ll take Mr. Stark over _Anthony._ ”

 

He says his own name with so much disgust in his voice that Peter has to wonder if there’s a story behind it.

 

Another day.

 

“Hey -”

 

Tony’s cut off by another voice.

 

“Oh my God, _Peter_.”

 

Peter’s head shoots up as May Parker comes barreling into the room, eyes bright and hair pulled up in a messy bun. Before he can even wonder if he can handle standing, he’s on his feet and taking the four steps he needs to meet Aunt May in the middle. Pulls her as close as he possibly can and presses his face into her shoulder, just like he did back in Washington DC.

 

(Things were so much simpler back then.

 

Strange, seeing as he was fighting his homecoming date’s dad, but, well. Apparently, when you’re a superhero, things can always get more complicated.)

 

“Peter, baby, I’m so glad you’re alright. Strange came to tell me you were awake, woke me up and scared the shit out of me.” She smells like hotel soap. Peter’s arms tighten around her. “I was so fucking worried.”

 

“M’okay,” he murmurs, and it’s not quite a lie. He feels, at least, like _okay_ is within reach. Like he could hold _okay_ in the palm of his hand if he just had a better grip (he sticks to walls, not abstract concepts). “Everything’s okay, Aunt May.”

 

That one’s a lie, full stop. None of this is okay, but he can let her believe it, just for now. Just for a minute.

 

May steps out of the hug, holds him at arm’s length. She looks him up and down once, twice, three times, before she seems satisfied that he’s not hurt, then drags him back in. Peter smiles into her shoulder.

 

Two out of three. He’s got two out of three of the people he cares most about back now, which, given his history, is pretty solid odds.

 

He’s still missing one.

 

“Have you seen Ned yet? He - shit, did he -”

 

He doesn’t even know if Ned survived the Snap or not.

 

He doesn’t know what the hell he’s supposed to do if Ned did survive. Five years is a long time when you both start out at sixteen but only one of you keeps going.

 

“I’ve seen him. He’s been by quite a few times, waiting for you to wake up,” May says. “He - he didn’t survive the Snap, Petey. So he’s still sixteen, like you.”

 

Is it selfish to be relieved?

 

He doesn’t know which option was better - dying and coming back five years later or actually surviving and having to face those five years with half the universe missing. Hasn’t had enough time to figure it out yet, doesn’t have enough evidence.

 

The awful haunted look that he’s seen in the eyes of everyone who survived had him leaning toward the former.

 

“Okay,” Peter says, because it’s all he _can_ say. “Is he here now?”

 

May finally releases him, but doesn’t move from his side. “Not right now, no. He said he’d be back some time tomorrow, though - or, well, _today_ , I suppose. Or I can call him now, if you want to see him.”

 

Peter does want to see him, even if it’s just to confirm for himself that all three of his favorite people are okay. Even if it’s just to give him some semblance of _normalcy._

 

Ned always makes things feel normal. Ned always makes him feel safe.

 

Where he’d be without Ned, he has no idea.

 

(Dead, probably, if the events of homecoming are anything to go off of.)

 

He wants to see Ned, but he wants to do it when his brain works right. When he’ll be able to keep up with Ned’s inevitable excitement, despite _everything,_ over the idea that his best friend helped save the world.

 

Which, he supposes, he did.

 

“I’ll call him later,” Peter says.

 

May nods understandingly, but then she glances around the room and the soft expression on her face fades quickly. “Wait. What’s wrong?”

 

Peter had hoped the little bubble of (oh, so blissful) ignorance would hang around a bit longer, but since nothing ever goes his way, said bubble is popped prematurely.

 

He tunes out the explanation, Tony and Natasha piggybacking off each other to get the full story out. Can’t hear it again or else he thinks he might scream.

 

When they’re finished, May doesn’t even look surprised. Just tired. Impossibly so.

 

All she says is, “The universe can never leave the two of you alone, huh?”

 

And that’s the kicker, isn’t it? They saved the universe - all the Avengers did, but when it came down to the wire, it was Tony and Peter, however incidental his own involvement was - and yet, the universe refuses to cut them some slack.

 

Par for the course, really, and not surprising at all - Parker-Luck mixed with the fact that Tony Stark hasn’t been able to catch a break since 2008? It was always going to be a recipe for disaster.

 

Maybe the universe thinks it’ll be easier to ruin their lives if it keeps them handcuffed together.

 

Well. If nothing else, there are worse people to be indefinitely tethered too.

 

Like Captain America. _God,_ he gets enough of those fucking PSAs at school.

 

“So what’s been going on?” Tony asks. “How’s the post-resurrection world holding up? How’s the team?”

 

Peter moves to sit down, taking May’s hand in his as he settles himself on the edge of Tony’s bed. He feels Tony’s fingers graze the back of his neck, a barely-there touch, before dropping to pick at a loose thread in the blanket.

 

The look on Natasha’s face as she watches them is indecipherable. “The team is fine, Tony. Everyone survived - I mean, everyone but...well, you - you know -”

 

Peter does not know, but the way Natasha’s gaze drops tells him not to ask.

 

Peter does not know who is being mourned, and yet grief settles somewhere low in his gut, clutches at his insides and twists them into something virtually unrecognizable.

 

Natasha clears her throat, but her voice is still hoarse when she says, “As for the rest of the world, things are...rough, to say the least. Bit of a shock, y'know, having half the population suddenly reappear. Not exactly your average Tuesday."

 

Was the battle actually on a Tuesday or is that just an offhand joke? Peter has no idea what day it is now, much less what day it was when he came back to life (is this the type of thing he gets bragging rights for? _Oh, sure, you time travelled, but I died and came back to life._ Too soon, he thinks, for now. Possibly forever.). He doesn't know what the date is, either, only the year.

 

  1. Peter never got to ring in the new decade.



 

Rabbit hole. Abort.

 

Natasha is still talking. Peter kind of can't believe he's even in the same room as her.

 

"Everyone knows what you did, Tony." Her index finger catches in her hair, twisting around a lock of it and tugging just a little. "None of the Avengers have said much yet, we wanted to wait until you woke up, but people won't shut up about you."

 

"And so the world is as it should be," Tony quips, but his smile is strained.

 

Rolling her eyes, she says, "I almost broke the team's unspoken vow of silence just to tell people to stop painting murals of you. Your head's big enough as is."

 

"'Me' as in Iron Man or 'me' as in Tony Stark?"

 

 _They're the same person_ , Peter thinks, confused.

 

"Both," Natasha replies.

 

May squeezes his hand, fingers laced between his, and Peter glances up at her. She tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear and mouths, _Are you okay?_

 

He wonders if he's supposed to lie. Smile and nod and say he's fine so she'll worry less.

 

Who is he kidding? May doesn't have any concept of _worrying less_.

 

Instead, he just squeezes her hand two times in quick succession - _no, but I will be._ An old code he hasn't used in years.

 

Two squeezes means he can handle it. Three squeezes means he needs help. Worked a lot better than trying to get him to talk when he was a kid.

 

For a moment, he worries that May won’t remember. But she doesn’t press any further, so she must understand.

 

"We have to say something now, don't we?" Tony sighs, and not for the first time since coming back to life, Peter's eyes catch on his graying hair. "Hold a press conference or something?"

 

"We don't have to do anything until you’re ready," Natasha says, and somehow it sounds sincere and completely untrue at the same time.

 

They're the Avengers. The world doesn't care if they're ready.

 

"You know," Tony says pensively, "this could be the perfect opportunity."

 

He's looking at Peter, a smirk playing across his lips despite the tiredness in his eyes and the sallowness of his cheeks. Peter lets go of May's hand, crosses an arm over his chest to rub at the opposite shoulder, asks, "Opportunity for what?"

 

In true Tony Stark fashion, he waits just a beat, smirk widening, as if there's an actual audience already and he's pausing for dramatic effect. Then, "To introduce Spider-Man as the newest member of the Avengers."

 

"That was _for real?"_ Peter's voice comes out way louder and way more high-pitched than he expects. He sees Tony flinch and immediately tones it down. "You mean - when you said I was an Avenger now, when we were in space, you were _serious?_ "

 

It's a bit of a jump, going from dreary to excited, but he lands shakily on exuberant, tucks and rolls through delighted, and finally stands straight on enthusiastic.

 

"Jesus, kid, you're gonna give me whiplash." Tony's fingers find his temples, and Peter knows he's feeling a headache similar to the one Peter had earlier.

 

Peter winces in sympathy. "Sorry."

 

Tony shakes his head, one hand carding through his hair. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just - don't get so excited, Pete, being an Avenger isn't all that."

 

"Oh, come on, Mr. Stark, just because I said I wanted to stay close to the ground last time doesn't mean the offer's not still _really fucking cool."_

 

"If you say so, Underoos."

 

"I do say so."

 

May is laughing at them. She's snickering into her hand, and by the looks of it, Natasha is close to joining her.

 

Tony flips both of them off, which only makes May laugh harder and Natasha finally break. Around her laughter, May says, "Sorry, sorry, you guys just - you guys are cute. I didn’t - I guess I forgot how close you two are for a second.”

 

“About to get a lot closer now, huh?” comes tumbling out of Peter’s mouth before he can think better of it.

 

It does not land well. Everyone just stares at him, and the look on Tony’s face screams, _Not funny, kid._

 

After a long stretch of awkward silence, May pipes up as if nothing was even said. “So this means Peter has to stay with you, yeah? At the compound?”

 

“Oh, I don’t actually -” Tony stops, eyes the two of them for a long moment, clearly contemplating something unknown to Peter, then says instead, “Yeah, I guess he does. You’ll come too, of course.”

 

“Of course,” May and Peter say simultaneously.

 

Tony nods, satisfied. “We’ll set up a press conference for tomorrow, then, and figure the living situation out after that. And then…then I guess we wait for Strange to fix this. All we _can_ do, really.”

 

“Wonderful,” Peter mutters.

 

And so begins the waiting game.

 

It’s a shitty game. It has no rules and no one knows where the finish line is.

 

Peter hates the waiting game.

 

But so far, being a superhero has been all about doing things he hates. The waiting game can’t possibly be much worse.

 

Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmu on [tumblr](https://pidgeottogunderson.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know how long it'll be between chapters, but i'll try to keep the wait time short! kudos and comments are appreciated, love you guys!! <3
> 
> hmu on [tumblr](https://peter-parkerson.tumblr.com/)


End file.
